


A Film by Ninomiya Kazunari (The Solipsism Remix)

by Sole_Sakuma



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Community: jentfic_remix, Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sole_Sakuma/pseuds/Sole_Sakuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amidst the cold morning haze, Nino thinks and imagines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Film by Ninomiya Kazunari (The Solipsism Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Film By Ninomiya Kazunari](https://archiveofourown.org/works/230490) by [astrangerenters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerenters/pseuds/astrangerenters). 
  * Inspired by [A Film By Ninomiya Kazunari](https://archiveofourown.org/works/230490) by [astrangerenters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerenters/pseuds/astrangerenters). 



> I might have taken this in a weirder direction than I thought. The original really made me laugh a lot, but since [](http://astrangerenters.livejournal.com/profile)[**astrangerenters**](http://astrangerenters.livejournal.com/) is a great comedy writer, I decided not to go with comedy since mine would pale in comparison.

**Prologue**  


  


A man laying in bed, drifting away in the twilight state between dream and reality.

On his half-awake mind, the lingering memories of a wild yet bitter night.

On his shoulders, the tension of unsaid wishes and untold lies.

Right next to his bed, on the floor, a blank notebook.

An open window and curtains dancing in the breeze.

An alarm clock buzzing in the background.

A cellphone that won't stop ringing.

Tokyo waking up.

  


**The Set Up**  


  


He was just resting in bed, doing nothing for once, but the timid light of a winter sunrise could touch even the most prosaic of objects and turn it into something beautiful and poetic. Even the skyline of the city was like a short poem, slowly unveiling before his eyes. He tried to bury himself in the convoluted world of his mind. If he dug himself a deep enough grave of lies, the shame that washed over him would subside. He'd forget and the phone would stop ringing.

The smoke of his cigarette went up in the air and contorted into fantastic figures. The rising sun lit them and he imagined acrobats and ballerinas, monsters and nightmares, faraway ships and forgotten shores. The figures changed with the wind and Nino tried to to unlock their mysteries, to track the slight change of a curve and the weight of trembling smoke. If he could understand those secrets, then he'd be surely be able to decipher the movements of the tide that his life had become - an unstoppable yet logical wave that kept pushing him forward to places he couldn't even begin to see. A wave that pushed him away of islands made of what-could-have-beens, towards uncharted waters where sea serpents danced and untold dangers slept in the deeps.

He stretched out his hand and dissipated the smoke. The figures disappeared, like a dream. If life was like smoke, Nino mused, it was weightless and almost an illusion. He'd be gone just like that. Maybe he was already gone - maybe they were all gone. All illusions, all figments of somebody's imagination.

Flashing images wandered through his idle mind - _last night in a karaoke_. Too autobiographical. He shut his eyes and forced his mind to suppress the image of four hurt gazes piercing him. _Five minutes ago in a Tokyo suburb... a mother and his child, he's tiny and she's strong_. Too maudlin. _A few months ago in a park far far away from a train station... a girl and a boy._ Too sentimental. _A decade ago in a run down apartment... a guy and his friend._

The images condensed and created sequences. Nino played with them, rearranging them like a capricious director, and ignored the insistent ringing.

A TV stuck on a fishing channel. A sofa with an old pattern. Maybe some assorted weird stuff that the protagonist would sell piece by piece. The memento of a forgotten friend, maybe. An evil landlord solely for the comedy factor. Sparse dialogue. An even sparser soundtrack - just a few songs, with just a voice and a guitar. Maybe not even a voice. A movie that would unsettle the audience - but with no shocks. It'd be like a pond - at first it'd be peaceful, natural and unpretentious, but then you'd sense the lurking menace underwater.

  


**The Complication**  


  


But management wouldn't let him direct that. Management probably wouldn't let him direct at all. Not even a crazy comedy about the shenanigans of a salary man with girly hobbies or the heart-warming story of the love between a poor girl and a rich bastard. Or the realistic, painful tale of an struggling actor waiting for that one big role.

He let the images fill his head - a man in a suit, with a bewildered expression and holding a Hello Kitty mug. A handsome would-be actor waking up and drinking coffee that tasted suspiciously like his own disappointment. An adventurer lost in the jungle. Or a beautiful man standing in the rain waiting for a woman who'd never show up. Maybe she was unsure of his love or maybe a car had hit her.

He tried to change their features, to force the salaryman's shoulders to slope less. To make the handsome actor less handsome. To wipe the beaming smile off the adventurer's face.

But the agency wouldn't let him direct maudlin melodramas or hilarious romps either. He was an idol. Idols didn't direct, they followed. Like the wind and the leaves, like the Moon and the sea.

But if he was like water, then, Nino thought, then even if one tiny obstacle along the way could change it all, he'd remain the same. He would change forms and fit any medium, but that wouldn't alter neither his colour nor his taste. He could be a pond, he thought, as an actor as well. Not acting with his eyebrows, but letting the feelings swirl under the surface of his gaze. Or he could be a shallow puddle instead.

He could star in action movies. High school girls covered in blood. A samurai from the future. Time travelling complications. It'd be a smash hit in Japan and a cult movie abroad. Foreign critics would talk about the alienation of Japanese society and they'd praise it. Local audiences would simply buy Arashi's single and he'd do the press rounds and say exactly the same as he always did.

He could even ask, even beg, to participate in a controversial art film. A love story between men - including sex scenes. The portrait of a tormented relationship between an artist and a businessman, an affair that starts slowly and then burns in a passionate climax. At first, just longing gazes and then a hand that brushes another hand. Words that don't mean what they mean. Tongues that speak with kisses. And a tragic ending.

Because all endings were tragic.  


  


**The Resolution**  


  


All beginnings were tragic as well - there was nothing hopeful about them. They were always followed by an ending - all that stood between them was a ride that could be fun, but mostly wasn't. Lucky people got to be the protagonists, all momentum and change and memorable quotes, but Nino wondered how being an extra in your own life would feel. The arrogant rival who learns a lesson about humility by losing to the underdog. The psychopath. The monster that's voiceless and unseen. A random passer-by killed by the villain. Store Clerk #1 or Third Man in an Unicycle.

Or what if your life was the equivalent of a company training video. The image of Jun being groped by an older woman crossed his mind and he couldn't help but chuckle. And then his mind was full of an Aiba who was forever lost in some dangerous place and of a Sho that was buried under family expectations and of an Ohno who was simply unemployed and drifting through life. A Jun still full of yearning, full of wanting. Paths that forked and lives that were turned inside out. Destiny was not set in stone, it was in perpetual motion.

But they would have met anyway, wouldn't they? And they'd always forgive him, even if he were a failure. Even if he yelled at them and lied to them. Even if he hid himself in sarcasm and even if he never shared those things dear to him.

They'd laugh at him - or maybe not -, if they knew that he always kept a notebook at hand, waiting for inspiration to strike, waiting for some novel ideal for a film or a rambling melody that wouldn't leave his mind. But he had stopped writing them down a long time ago and since then they had flooded his mind. He would start doing that again, maybe. Because you never knew, after all, fate was like wind, like water, like smoke.

He took his phone. Missed calls and unopened messages. He typed 'Sorry' and then hit send, sure of at least one thing in a shapeless world – the steady gaze of four guys that he didn’t deserve and their even steadier hands.  



End file.
